


Dual Identities

by mistrali



Category: Circle of Magic - Tamora Pierce, Emelan - Tamora Pierce, PIERCE Tamora - Works
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:49:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistrali/pseuds/mistrali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daja teaches Briar staff fighting (sparring?). Gift for PeroxidePirate for Glake's 2012 Ficmas Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dual Identities

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for vagueness or inaccuracies with the staff fighting scene! I watched a couple of videos to familiarise myself with how to hold a staff and how staff fighting looked, but that’s about the extent of my research outside the books, I’m afraid. The names and descriptions of strikes are from Cold Fire.

**Dual Identities**

As the Hub clock struck half past five, Daja coaxed a last coil of copper wire around and under the cedar-and-juniper wreath she was helping Briar make for Midwinter.

“Enough decorating,” she growled. “I can’t sit still anymore; I think I’ll get in some staff practice. C’mon, thief-boy, I’ll teach you too,” she said to Briar.

“It’s worse’n Gorse’s kitchen in here,” said Briar, jumping up eagerly. He pointed at the two additional logs Frostpine had piled onto an already blazing fire.

“Frostpine? You want to come before you burn to death?” he joked.

Frostpine shuddered. “Gods, no. My joints are playing up, and it’s curst cold outside. I’ll sit here by the fire and meditate,” he said, curled up on Lark’s scarlet hearthrug like a cat. “Mind you two stay in the courtyard.”

“It’s not like it snows here,” said Daja, rolling her eyes at him. “We’re near the sea, remember?”

“It doesn’t have to be snowing. Wait till you get to my age, and you’ll know how my aching bones protest.”  
“Your aching bones were fine yesterday, when we had to carry those buckets of rivets to the Hub,” she grumbled.

“Ah, she doesn’t know my trials,” he said dramatically to Briar, who snorted. “Don’t dint him, Daja.” His eyes fluttered shut.

“I’ll be just as gentle as a spring breeze,” said the girl; her grin suggested quite the contrary.

“You wait’ll I teach you how to fist fight,” he grumbled, as they went outside. The slight chill of the courtyard was refreshing, and the smoothly paved stone made for an ideal practice ground.

“I could beat you any time, thief-boy,” she drawled, showing well-toned muscles hardened from her smith’s work, and from years of rowing on Third Ship Kisubo. She sent an extra drop of power to the lamps embedded in the cornices, making the firelight burn more brightly against the darkening sky.

“I’m faster,” he countered, as she grabbed her staff. “What do I use ‘stead of that oversized stick?” he asked, gesturing to it.

“Lark’s spare poles, the ones she uses to prop up her shutters,” said Daja, tossing him one. “It’s a bit lighter and thinner than a proper Trader staff. But first I want to teach you how to hold a real staff.” She offered him the end, lightly padded with a piece of cotton because they were only practicing. He took it, running his hands over it and inspecting the wood with a thief’s eye for detail. He whistled, impressed. “It’s solid ebony, and the good Olarten stuff, too, not cheap from Hatar. You could land some ouches, with this. How do I use it?”

“For the first exercise, turn it like this.” She held the pole one-handed in front of her and gave it a twirl downwards.

“What’s this for?” protested Briar. “I thought we were fighting.”

“It’s to get your muscles used to the movements, so you don’t sprain something, and to help you adjust to holding a long weapon – especially if you’re new. Like meditation, but to discipline your body.” She grinned.

“Splendid. Like we don’t get enough from Lark and Rosethorn.”

“Oh, stop complaining. You sound like my Aunt Hulweme.”

Briar stuck his tongue out at her, then tried to spin the staff the way she’d shown him, but lost his balance and righted himself while cursing fluently in Tradertalk.  
“Sorry, I forgot you weren’t used to the weight; most of us start younger, with pine or rattan poles. Here, let’s swap. Where’d you learn all that?” she added, raising her eyebrows.

“I’d a mate in the gang who was a Trader. Dancer, her name was, ‘cos she could outrun near any of them dung-brained Harriers – that’s Provost’s Guard, who catch folk breaking the law. She was left on the streets ‘cos she’d no right eye. Survived, though, and was good enough to steal food from under the Thief Lord’s nose, if she’d a mind."

He lifted the pole and tried the spin again, this time with more success.

 _Good; remember to hold the staff closer to your body, or you’ll fall again. Traders aren’t known for their tolerance,_ she said; not bitterly, because she was past bitterness, but with resignation.

 _I noticed,_ he said drily. _That gilav wouldn’t listen to you till you saved folk from a_ fire. _And that Polyam of yours needed to be beaten round the head with it, too. You don’t need mates like them, or family._

 _Thanks, Briar,_ whispered Daja, touched by his rare show of affection. But she still felt confused, after all this time, when she remembered the caravan she had almost joined last year. To be neither properly Tsaw’ha, with all the rituals and language and bargaining customs she’d grown up with, nor a true non-Trader but some strange mix of both, felt too much like being on a rocking boat in a slight squall. The feeling wasn’t enough to frighten, just unsettle. It was a restless, guilty unease, as of debts unpaid– would she always feel like a traitor to one of her peoples? She shook her head to clear such fancies. She had her smithing, and Discipline, and Frostpine. She knew what he would say, with the deep laugh that never failed to reassure her: “Daja, life is _supposed_ to mean sifting through dross to find the ores. You won’t ever meet someone halfway interesting whose life isn’t confusing.”

 _C’mon, Daja, pay attention!_ Briar’s voice startled her; she blinked and looked at him. _You were off in the clouds,_ he explained. _I think I got it now._

Oti log it, she _had_ to stop brooding on this. _Let’s try another,_ she said, forcing herself to focus. _Raise your staff above your head, then sweep it diagonally towards the ground._

*

After a few more drills, Daja adopted the proper fighting stance - legs apart, knees bent, staff held in front of her, shoulders straight. “This is how you begin any fight. First, the staves touch. It’s like a ritual, sort of.” If Briar saw the tremble of her chin or the brightness of her eyes, he didn’t comment on them. Instead he touched his pole to the end of her staff and withdrew.

“Now grip your staff with both hands, lengthwise across your body. Spread your hands out more,” she said, demonstrating. “That’s how you block.”

He frowned, lowering his staff slightly. “Block?”

“The kind of strikes you use to defend yourself are different from the ones you attack with – else you wouldn’t know how to stop someone else’s strike. Understand?” When he nodded, she continued, “The easiest is a middle block, like you’re doing. Now I’m going to strike, and you have to block me.”

She executed a middle strike, not gently but not too hard, either – she didn’t want to use her full strength on a beginner – and was surprised and delighted when he didn’t even flinch. “You’re better than I thought,” she said, impressed.

“You bet, Trader-girl,” he said proudly. “I’ll give as good’s I get. You won’t know what’s coming to you.”

They practiced the middle block a few more times, then switched positions. Briar eyed the staff warily at first, but his confidence grew with every hit, till Daja felt he’d progressed enough to learn the next step.

“Now we do the same thing,” she panted, “except with a high block and a high strike.”

She arched her staff over her head and brought it down; he jumped forward and countered with a jarring high block.

“Good!” she exclaimed. “But you needed to stretch your arms out. Let’s try again.”

It felt good, to finally fall into the old pattern of strikes and blocks, even if Briar was clumsier and slower than her uncles or Uneny and Onaly, her two oldest brothers. Smithing work was different: she had to control the heat from the fire. Then she needed to aim the hammer exactly at the head of each nail, or solder each inch of the welding joint. Fighting was purely physical, and properly unpredictable. There was no room for thoughts, particularly inconvenient ones. She suspected Briar felt the same, from the light in his eyes when they stopped. Both were breathing hard – Daja had been out of practice for nearly a year, and though she was strong, Briar was more than her match in speed. Living on the streets for six years had given him a keen eye for openings. She’d had to work to keep her advantage.

“Nicely done, Daj’,” he said with a grin. “Maybe next time I’ll beat you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Maybe if you practice some more. Rematch?"

“Yes, please!” he said eagerly, gulping down some water from his canteen. “Now me. I’ll teach you how to punch and kick. And some holds to break a finger or toe. ‘Sides, I owe you.” He winked.

Daja snorted. “I’ve always wanted to know how you do that. Only… when Sandry comes back from visiting the Duke, please. She loves a good street fight.”  
_’specially when she gets all uppity about it, eh, Sandry?_ asked Briar. They both giggled at the memory of Sandry lobbing gutter muck at town boys the previous year.  
_Oh, hush. I’m trying to concentrate. Tax reforms in Olart aren’t exactly interesting, you know._

 _Daj’s been teaching me to fight like Traders do. It’s fun. You should come, and I’ll teach you all to tumble like street rats – even Coppercurls, if she can stomach it._ Girls _: always keeling over at some ouch or other,_ he said, with a grin at Daja, who rolled her eyes and elbowed him hard in the ribs.

 _Nice try, Briar,_ called Tris from the kitchen, where she was glazing seedcakes with honey and cinnamon. _We all know by now that you’re not half serious when you talk like that about girls, or Lark and Rosethorn would have something to say about it. And Sandry, why_ are _you doing all that paperwork? Shouldn’t you be spending time with His Grace?_

Sandry sighed. _I’d_ love _to come and learn staff fighting with you two, and help decorate Discipline, but Uncle has gout again – he’s abed now, I think, after staying awake till two this morning and being too stubborn to even put on healing salve all yesterday. He’d work himself sick if I didn’t stop him._

Like someone else we know? Relax a little, saati. _You deserve a rest for the holiday – his Grace pays people to do this work for him._

Yes, but he always has to go over everything himself, one more time, to make sure it’s perfect, said Sandry mournfully. _I might as well do it, since I’ve finished all my weaving, and Lark has temple duties besides. I’ll be home in time for Midwinter, I promise._

 _You’d better,_ said Briar. _This stuff's important, Duchess, but it ain't worth losing sleep over._

 _‘Duchess’? I can’t decide if I should be offended or flattered,_ she said thoughtfully.

 _You should be both,_ said Tris, mock serious. _He’s trying to confuse you. And Briar, you don't think_ anything's _worth losing sleep over._

Sandry laughed; they could feel waves of contentment coming through their connection. _I’m glad we can mind-speak like this: I feel like I haven’t seen you all in_ weeks. _I missed you,_ saati. _Both you and Daja, and Briar and all our teachers. Give my love to everyone at home, won’t you? Oh, cat dirt, this is what happens when I don’t pay attention. I need to redo these figures._

She cut them off while Briar was growling about noble girls and their precious feelings. Daja tugged his ear lightly. “You know, you and Rosethorn and Tris are all the same like that; you’re not comfortable when people show too much emotion, and you don’t know how to cover it up, so you mutter, or you say silly or insulting things you don’t mean.”

Heat rose to his cheeks. “What, Daj’, you think you’re a mind-healer, now?”

“No!” she said indignantly, taking him at his word. “My cousin Madija used to be like that. He’d sail to Blaze-Ice Bay and back for family or a friend, but thank him and he’d curse you to the moon without really meaning any of it.”

“I guess I learned it, on the streets,” mumbled Briar. “Street rats who wanted food went and stole it for the gang. A bleater who cried for his ma got knifed.” His face was suddenly grim and his voice had gone cold. Daja shivered, watching him, and realised for the first time how lucky she’d been to have a family, a loving and large one, even if they did beat her for wanting to do _lugsha_ work – and to have a second family after she lost her first one. How many kids got that chance? She waited for the lump in her throat to dissolve. When she could speak again, she said, “Shall we go inside? I think Frostpine’s wondering where we got to. Either that or he’s daydreaming and forgot about us.” She didn’t wait for Briar, but hurried inside to where Frostpine lay sleeping on the hearthrug. She kissed him lightly on the forehead, not wanting to wake him. Normally she might have rolled her eyes and dumped a pail of cold water on him, but now she realised with a pang that he was only two or three years younger than the Duke. The way he works, he ought to have some rest, she thought. Briar caught up with her, and together they walked to the kitchen to help Tris with her Midwinter seedcakes – or in Briar’s case, make pitiable faces just as Little Bear did, until Tris relented and let him lick the honey off the spoons.


End file.
